


A Quiet Fascination

by dreamlittleyo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Roughness, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post!XFC AU) When Erik bids him return to the beach, it's only the first of many times Azazel protects Charles Xavier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanaGoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaGoya/gifts).



> Written for the endlessly awesome [Yana](http://yanagoya.tumblr.com/). Yep, I'm posting this _barely_ in time to beat the new movie. Thanks for your patience, hon! *hugs*

**(Azazel)**

Azazel's loyalties are not so easily bought.

When he accepts Lehnsherr's hand on that beach, it's because he is practical. It's the expedient choice. In order to save his remaining allies and learn more of the man who could best Shaw, Azazel accepts. But he is agreeing only to listen. He offers no allegiance and makes no promises.

Short minutes and a safe distance from the disastrous shore of Shaw's defeat, Azazel steps away intending to ask what comes next. Lehnsherr seems a man with impressive intentions. Expansive aspirations. Such men don't always know what to do with the minutia of their dreams.

But Azazel has no chance to ask his questions before Lehnsherr turns to him with desperate eyes.

"Will you go back?" Lehnsherr asks. "Charles is—" A catch in his voice, an unmistakable hesitation. "I fear for him."

"You would have me take him to safety?" Azazel's eyebrows rise with surprise.

"He needs a hospital. Doctors. And he needs them quickly."

Azazel doesn't try to mask his confusion as he asks, "Why would you wish me to do this? He is not your ally. At best he is a liability, at worst a potential enemy."

"He is my _friend_." Erik's voice is bright and sharp with anger. "And even were he not, Charles Xavier would still be one of us."

This, perhaps, is the moment Azazel changes his mind about Erik Lehnsherr. This is the moment pragmatic curiosity gives way to an unexpected spark of loyalty. It ignites in his chest, surprising him with certainty. _This_ is the moment he realizes that whatever battles Lehnsherr chooses to fight, Azazel will stand beside him.

He does not linger to argue further; now isn't the time for debate. Azazel nods, and in a flash of shimmering red, he obeys.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Almost two weeks pass before Erik's next request, though Azazel is expecting it all the while.

"I want to see him." 

Azazel nods at the man who is no longer Lehnsherr, but Magneto. The helmet, awkward and constant and the strangest reminder of Shaw, makes it difficult to read Magneto's expression. The metal glints a brazen crimson, goading and rebellious, and Azazel ruminates that a man who would wear such a thing must be looking for a fight.

"He has been moved to a surgical facility in New Hampshire," Azazel says, because he's been paying attention. Part of his value as an ally—though perhaps a part that few have properly appreciated—is his determination to foresee future demands, to be prepared and informed for all contingencies.

"I know." 

Of course Magneto knows. In the past two weeks, Azazel has come to realize that Charles Xavier is more important to the man than anyone, even Magneto—perhaps especially Magneto—will say. 

When one has been always alone, true friends must be precious indeed—or so Azazel suspects. Charles Xavier was Magneto's truest friend. Azazel wonders if even the schism that divides the two now can really have changed that. 

"Come." Azazel extends his hand. "It will be quite late there now. The middle of the night, I think. The perfect time to make an appearance without drawing unwanted attention." He doesn't suggest Magneto don less conspicuous attire. Even if they're discovered, it will make little enough difference what Magneto is wearing. Sight of Azazel will lead anyone who sees them to sound the alarm.

Magneto takes his hand, palm cool and dry against Azazel's fingers. He presents the illusion of steady confidence. Azazel isn't fooled; Magneto's eyes are far too expressive.

It's not a short distance—Magneto and his Brotherhood have taken temporary shelter in a stronghold just off the eastern coast of Greenland—but still they make the journey in under half an hour. 

The hospital is dark, Xavier's private room claustrophobic and oppressive. Azazel would not stay here thirty seconds, given a choice. His senses, already on high alert, heighten when he sees that the squat, uncomfortable chair beside the bed is occupied. The government agent from the beach sleeps in an unrestful position, curled in on herself like a child.

His raised hackles calm at the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the deeply shadowed circles under her eyes. Exhaustion has clearly wrung her dry. She won't wake for anything short of gunfire, and violence is not why they are here.

Only belatedly, after assessing and dismissing the more immediate danger, do Azazel's eyes reach the bed that takes up the vast majority of the small room. Xavier is nearly motionless in sleep. His body has been restrained to prevent aggravation of his injuries, and his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. He looks pallid and unwell, worse for the indifferent moonlight creeping in at the window. Azazel briefly entertains an uncharitable thought: perhaps it would have been kinder not to interfere. 

Naturally, with that thought Azazel's gaze shifts from Xavier to Magneto. Even with so much of his expression hidden behind the severe contours of the helmet, Magneto's grief is evident. It hangs clogging the air of the small room, a tangible force bearing even Azazel down.

Azazel doesn't speak. He is not here to witness this moment, and he will not intrude where he can't possibly be wanted. Magneto has eyes only for his injured friend, and Azazel won't insult him with pointless platitudes.

"He may never walk again," Magneto says softly.

Azazel, looking at Charles Xavier and giving Magneto the thin illusion of privacy, does not respond.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Weeks evolve into months that pass too quickly. Plans and practicalities are the focus of Azazel's thoughts, as he helps Magneto develop the resources they will need for the fight ahead. There are fellow mutants to approach, contacts to exploit, bases and safe houses to locate and build. These things take time, and money, and a great deal of work. Azazel makes himself indispensable, staying close at Magneto's side along the way.

He works closely with Mystique at first, and finds her efficiently cold. What warmth she has she spends sparingly, and Azazel doesn't try to draw her out. They will never be friends, a fact of which both are comfortably aware.

They work less and less together, as Magneto's efforts expand to broader and more ambitious horizons. Looking to the future requires the laying of meticulous groundwork, and only trusted allies can oversee the more difficult details. Mystique is almost constantly away, using her talents to undertake covert operations in the human world—operations of which even Azazel knows only the barest details, and doesn't need to know more.

Azazel is likewise busy. Traveling as he does, he is the quickest mode of communication between distant enclaves, until alternate methods can be laid down. He carries orders where bidden, returning always to Magneto's side.

Azazel doesn't ask after Charles Xavier. The telepath has not entirely slipped his mind—Azazel is too much the strategist not to consider future threats along with present necessities—but he has more pressing concerns now. He wastes no more time wondering after Xavier's uncertain health. He knows Xavier lives—his contacts would inform him otherwise—but beyond that he is only idly curious.

He is surprised, then, when Erik tells him, "Charles could make a full recovery. The doctors are optimistic."

They are alone on a brambled, rocky slope—an innocuous hillside that shields and disguises a deep labyrinth of corridors beneath. The structure is mostly empty for now, the time-consuming process of tunneling and reinforcing only just complete. But the fast-flowing river on the far side of the hill is already being tapped for the power they will need, equipping the facility for its intended purpose. Scientific research, dangerous but vital. 

There are half a dozen mutants at work far beneath them in the earth. On this hillside above, the two men stand quietly side-by-side. Azazel stares for a long moment, trying to decipher Magneto's reasons for imparting this information.

Magneto must take Azazel's silence for further prompting, because he speaks again. "Thank you." 

Azazel blinks, as surprised by these words as by the ones that came before. "Why are you thanking me?" he asks, when Magneto doesn't explain.

"Because it was you," Magneto says, expression cryptic beneath the grim crimson helmet. "Without your help, the doctors would have been too late. Even if they could have saved him, he would never have walked again." 

Azazel hesitates only a moment before answering, "You are welcome, of course."

Magneto again falls silent, though he doesn't retreat. The tension in his stance tells Azazel his companion has more to say, but obvious reluctance holds him back. Magneto's hands clench into idle fists at his sides, and when at last he speaks his voice is thick with indecipherable emotion.

"Charles Xavier is a thousand times the better man. The world needs him. Far more than it needs the likes of me."

"But you think he is wrong." Azazel's eyebrows are high, his tail restless in the crisp air. 

"His methods will never succeed," Magneto says in the same weighty tone. "But the future cannot be built in fire. We will fight this war our way, but it will take a different sort of man to rebuild when we are through."

"And you think Xavier will be that man."

"I know he will."

Hours later, when the sun has set and the bare facility has been locked down for the night, Azazel finds Magneto in the sparse bunk he has claimed for his own. Azazel has had time to mull through the words they exchanged on the hillside, and has reached his own conclusions.

"If Charles Xavier is everything you seem to think, then I am glad you bade me save him. Our cause would be diminished without him." 

Magneto exhibits obvious surprise at Azazel's words. He doesn't smile, but some small weight seems to lift from his shoulders, and when he nods there is gratitude in the gesture.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel keeps closer tabs on Charles Xavier after that. Magneto offers no more updates, but he hardly needs to. They're working from the same information as a year passes and the Brotherhood moves quietly forward. It takes careful maneuvering to lay the political groundwork they will need—positioning operatives to both influence and gather information from within the various Human governments. It takes even longer to develop the necessary technology, the weapons and vehicles and medicines that will let them fight their war.

It will be a quiet war at first, but a war just the same. There is a great deal of work to be done.

Eventually, Azazel receives word that Xavier has indeed made a full recovery. The doctors aren't quite calling it a miracle, but Azazel can read between the lines. He knows the odds were not good, and that whatever Azazel's own part, Xavier is still a very lucky man. 

It's not long after this news that he has the opportunity to observe Xavier's miracle with his own eyes. It seems Xavier shares Magneto's reluctance to stay away from the front lines. When the Brotherhood and Xavier's team—the X-Men as they call themselves, though Azazel can't help sneering at the ridiculous epithet—follow the same intel to a Human research facility off the coast of Florida, there is Xavier himself leading his people.

Magneto's sources claim some two dozen mutants are confined within the facility. It's no surprise that the Brotherhood is not alone in attempting this rescue.

The facility is well defended, and the fight quickly devolves to chaos. Azazel's skills are an asset in this frenzy of violence, and he moves with all his vicious speed, flashing from spot to spot, stabbing and slashing and drawing enemy fire towards the wrong targets. He is careful of the other mutants—perhaps in another lifetime he would not have cared to protect them, but he has no desire to see the X-Men hurt. More, he knows Magneto would not approve of carelessness. 

Mutants must look after their own. There is no one else to do it.

Azazel is paying little attention to specific players in the chaos of battle. His attention is split between the ground and the air as helicopters full of well-armed humans take to the sky. But he is close by when he hears Magneto cry out in furious despair.

" _Charles_!"

The cry draws Azazel's attention, and he sees the danger. One of the helicopters has been reduced to flaming wreckage, and it is falling straight at Xavier, too fast for escape.

Azazel reacts with inhuman speed, and in a flash of red he is at Xavier's side, knocking him down with all the weight and speed of instinct. Another flash and they hit the ground at a distance, safely away from the surge of battle. They're near enough to hear the cries, the impacts, the fiery explosions. 

Xavier is breathing heavily, holding cautiously still beneath Azazel's pinning weight. Azazel doesn't remember wrapping his fingers around Xavier's wrists, but he holds them pinned to the dirt now, and Xavier stares up at him with startled blue eyes. 

The sounds of battle are already dying away nearby. Magneto's orders carry strong on the wind, calling for his forces to fall back with those they have saved. There are still sporadic explosions deeper within the facility, and shouts of voices Azazel doesn't recognize. Xavier's people are trying to save the humans that the Brotherhood left to die.

"Please get off of me," Xavier says, surprisingly politely. That he asks at all is likely as close as he will come to thanking Azazel for saving his life. He could easily voice the command in an imperative Azazel would be helpless to ignore. He's not struggling beneath Azazel's body; he is waiting with a forced, tense patience.

Azazel is not entirely certain what delays him. He knows only that he is reluctant to release Xavier, even now that the danger has passed. It's nearly a full minute before Azazel releases the fragile wrists and pushes himself onto his knees. He hesitates again, still kneeling over him as Xavier pushes up onto his elbows.

"Charles!" comes Magneto's voice, rushing to join them as the last of the fighting dwindles. Azazel stands quickly now, reaches out to offer Charles a hand. Charles accepts, and Azazel tugs him to his feet.

Azazel steps aside as Magneto closes in, and watches in silence as the two men face off. He may as well not be here, for all the notice either takes of him now. He is not party to this conversation. 

They argue for what seems an eternity. Voices rise in raw anger, Xavier's an indignant rage, Magneto's a protective fury. It's a ridiculous fight, born of too much feeling, and Azazel is fascinated. These two men could so easily destroy each other, if they had a mind to. 

They may destroy each other anyway. Theirs is not a simple friendship.

The argument ends not because it is over, but because Xavier's allies come to collect him in the hovering jet that brought them. Xavier boards with a single glance over his shoulder, and the expression on his face is an anguish that Azazel will never admit to seeing. He doesn't know what expression is on Magneto's face—he doesn't have a chance to look before the Blackbird disappears into the sky.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

"I have a new assignment for you. You might not like it." It's typical of their working relationship that Magneto doesn't bother to greet him before making this assertion. Their mutual respect is an abrupt, taciturn sort of arrangement, and there's no need for pointless niceties between them.

Neither does Azazel need whatever explanation Magneto has prepared; he already knows what this assignment will be. It's barely been a week since Azazel saved Charles Xavier from a fiery battlefield demise, and today there is a particular glint in Magneto's eye. It's a look that, even through the narrow visibility of the crimson helmet, tells Azazel exactly who this is about.

"You want me to babysit your reckless telepath," Azazel observes with dry amusement.

Magneto seems taken aback, but he quickly recovers.

"Not constantly," he says, stepping closer and dropping his voice, despite the fact that they are very much alone. "But if left to his own devices he will inevitably martyr himself in some idiotic gesture of heroism."

"Likely," Azazel agrees.

"But perhaps if someone were to keep an eye on him..." Magneto's gaze is piercing. "Someone who could travel great distances in very little time. Someone I could trust to guard him against his own foolishness, if only some of the time." 

What Magneto is asking would not be difficult, though it would divide Azazel's attention, divert him often from the Brotherhood's needs. But Magneto is clearly not oblivious to this fact. He knows what he's asking. He knows the scope of the favor he demands.

From the stiff line of his shoulders, it's obvious he expects Azazel to refuse.

"When do you want me to begin?"

Again Magneto seems taken aback, and Azazel wonders if the man will ever stop underestimating him. They've been working together for well over a year; it shouldn't still be so easy to catch Magneto off his guard. It makes Azazel feel as though he still has something to prove.

"As soon as possible," Magneto answers at last. "Obviously there's only so much you can do. I would not have you neglect your other duties to satisfy my own selfish concerns."

"No, of course." 

A pause, a bare hesitation, the considering weight of Magneto's stare. Azazel is not discomfited by the heavy scrutiny. He waits silently.

"Is it really that easy?" Magneto finally asks. "You'll do it?"

"If you feel Charles Xavier needs protecting, I will gladly offer my services." Azazel's lip curls at one corner, not quite a smile, and he adds, "Though I suspect he will not be happy to see me."


	2. Chapter 2

**(Charles)**

When Azazel materializes in Charles' study on a thursday, for almost a full minute all Charles can do is gape.

Azazel makes no move to greet him, apparently content to wait out Charles' startled pause. A smug expression glints like amusement in his eyes, and his tail swishes idly back and forth. He stands exactly where he materialized, beside the window with his hands clasped behind his back, his entire posture casual.

"What are you doing here?" Charles asks when he recovers, berating himself for the delay. Azazel is not an enemy—not exactly—and it's this uncertainty throwing Charles off his stride. Obvious danger would put him on the immediate defensive, but Azazel is more complicated: once an enemy, but also a man who has saved Charles' life twice. 

To say his unexpected presence confuses Charles would be a severe understatement.

"Magneto sent me," Azazel answers simply.

"Why?" Charles asks, and then, as awful possibilities occur to him, "Is everything all right? Is he hurt? Is Raven—"

"No one is hurt," Azazel calmly interrupts. "It is for you that I have come. Magneto seems to think that, left to your own devices, you will find your way to an unpleasant end."

It takes a moment for Azazel's words to sink in, ridiculous as they are. Once they do rage follows close behind. 

"If this is someone's twisted idea of a joke—"

"It is no jest." Azazel's stance shifts, but he makes no move away from the window. "Magneto worries for your safety."

The rage in Charles' chest turns icy, and for long moments he can find no words to force past the furious emotions clogging his throat. Erik has no right. He should be at Charles' side himself, but he made a different choice. Even after all this time the loss is a sharp, stubborn hurt that refuses to fade.

Easier by far to face the raw anger he feels at Erik's interference. Easier to take offense at Erik's presumption than to consider the pain of broken friendship, so Charles squares his shoulders and meets Azazel's eyes. He barely recognizes the flat chill of his own voice as he says, "Leave. This instant. And tell Erik he is in no position to interfere with my life or my choices."

"I'm sorry, Comrade." Azazel actually sounds contrite. "I will not go just yet. I have given Magneto my word that I will see to your wellbeing." 

"To my— You— I don't need _protecting_ ," Charles splutters, taken aback by the bland refusal. Even his rage flickers weakly in the face of his startled disbelief. 

"Previous experience suggests otherwise," Azazel retorts dryly.

And because Charles can think of nothing more to say—because he has no idea how to convince Azazel to _leave_ and is through taking part in an argument he can't win—he turns his back and retreats from his own study, slamming the door heavily closed behind him.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It's not until several hours later that it occurs to Charles he can't take Azazel's stated purpose at face value. Sloppy of him, and stupid, not to have read the mutant's mind at once, and he knows this is an oversight he must remedy quickly.

Finding Azazel in the expansive mansion is easy enough, though Charles suspects it's only because Azazel is perfectly willing to be found. He locates Azazel on the roof, perched in a crouch on a high wall overlooking the southern grounds of the estate. Azazel looks natural and comfortable there, tail an easy counterbalance on the roof behind him as the sunset burnishes his crimson skin. 

He doesn't turn to acknowledge Charles' approach, and Charles doesn't greet him.

He skims Azazel's surface thoughts first, but finds little of use. Azazel is clearly aware of his presence, but seems disinclined to resist Charles' investigation. Charles senses an almost malicious amusement at his expense, closely matched by a nebulous fascination that he avoids examining too closely. He doesn't relish the thought of Azazel being fascinated by him. He would just as soon Azazel pay him no attention, get bored and leave, though there seems little hope of that.

"My purpose is sincere," Azazel says, abruptly breaking the quiet. "I intend no harm to you or your students." 

Charles knows he speaks the truth. There's no hint of duplicity in Azazel's thoughts. He clearly does not mean to cause trouble for the school Charles has taken such pains to build.

When Charles slides deeper into Azazel's mind, he meets no resistance. Either Azazel is not sensitive to what Charles is doing, or he simply doesn't care enough to prevent Charles' efforts. Charles feels no guilt at taking such invasive action; privacy is a luxury for others to respect. 

He's not looking for reassurances now, but information. Whatever Erik's purpose, he has put a valuable resource in Charles' path. Charles searches Azazel's mind for hints of the Brotherhood's plans and activities, anything that might offer a tactical advantage where their purposes collide.

To his frustration, he finds very little. Locations of certain bases of operations, hints of the scientific research being done in the labs Erik has constructed. Nothing concrete, nothing vital, nothing of impending actions or violence in the making.

"Are you still reading my mind, Xavier?" Azazel asks when the silence lasts too long. "You will find little of tactical use."

"He's kept you in the dark so that he could send you here," Charles guesses.

"Not so." Azazel turns his head and smirks at Charles over his shoulder. "Very few know Magneto's plans until the moment of execution. Even those he trusts are told as little as possible until he is ready to move forward."

"Perhaps he does not trust so well as he would have you think."

Azazel's smirk turns sharper and he says, "Or perhaps he has known enough telepaths to recognize the danger of sharing sensitive information among even the most loyal."

Charles scowls but does not argue the point.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel remains at the school for nearly a week, lurking and lingering and never far from Charles' sight. There's a stubborn persistence to his presence, whether or not he bothers to engage Charles in conversation. Something about his smile raises Charles' hackles.

Even when he can't see Azazel, he can usually feel the mutant's eyes on him. 

He doesn't know where Azazel sleeps, but there are any number of unused rooms and beds in this mansion, assuming Azazel needs sleep at all. He bears Azazel's near constant scrutiny with thinning patience, and orders his X-Men to ignore him unless they find him venturing into sensitive areas of the mansion.

Azazel's departure is as abrupt as his arrival. He offers no explanation before he disappears, and it's only after an hour has passed that Charles realizes Azazel has really gone. Summoned away most likely, or perhaps making a particular rendezvous agreed to before he even set foot at the school.

Three days later, the Brotherhood of Mutants makes international headlines. Charles doesn't need details to know that, whatever they were trying to accomplish, something went wrong. No matter Erik's feelings about humanity as lesser creatures, the chaotic bloodbath reported by the media can't have been the intended plan. Slaughter on this scale is inefficient and calls too much attention. It also turns Charles' stomach. He will never be able to reconcile the man he wants Erik to be with the man capable of such violence. 

Azazel is conspicuous where he turns up in news photos and footage of the attack. His distinctive appearance is difficult to miss, even in grim black and white. Some hundred and fifty humans have been reported dead, and Charles wonders how many of them fell to Azazel.

When Azazel reappears at the school that night, he is uninjured and clearly unbothered by recent events. Charles doesn't know what to do with his own cold fury. For four days he doesn't say a word to his quiet, constant shadow. 

On the fifth day Azazel says, "You are not usually so quiet."

It's too much. Charles feels the frozen fury snap loose in his chest, and he whirls on Azazel with all the force of his rage. His hands clench tightly at his sides, his spine is taut, his shoulders tense as he squares off and meets a look of genuine surprise on Azazel's face.

"How many of those men died at your hands?" Charles asks, and barely recognizes the icy tone of his own voice. 

"Forty-six," Azazel reports, as though it's of no consequence at all. "Why?" 

" _Why_?" Charles echoes with a snap. "Do you really not understand? With all your skill, your talent, you couldn't have found _some other way_?"

But Azazel is watching him with confusion, eyebrows arching high, blue eyes wide with the obvious effort of deciphering Charles' anger. He blinks, the first hint of comprehension surfacing.

"It upsets you when they die."

"Of course it upsets me." Charles gapes, tightens his fists at his sides. "They're _people_!"

"They are not like us." Azazel still sounds too calm.

"And that makes their lives less valuable than ours?"

"Yes."

" _No_." Charles has to pause, he has to _think_ , because his anger is making it difficult to keep his head. A quick nudge at Azazel's mind may be cheating, but the glimpse is illuminating and stops Charles short.

Azazel isn't being malicious. He isn't deliberately baiting Charles; he genuinely doesn't understand. Azazel has always been more than just special. His physical features set him apart from humanity in a way Charles has never had to cope with, even indirectly. Even Raven could hide her true nature from the ignorant and the hurtful. But Azazel's entire existence is constructed around the basic, clear-cut premise that humans are different. And not just different, but inferior and cruel. A race with whom he and his kind share no common ground.

Charles tries to imagine Azazel's childhood and finds he simply can't. Neither does he go looking for the information in Azazel's head. It's not his business.

He is no longer angry when he says, in a softer voice, "Human life _does_ matter. They have as much right to exist as we do."

"And if our existences are mutually exclusive?"

But Charles shakes his head firmly and says, "I cannot believe that. Peace _must_ be possible."

Azazel doesn't mock him aloud. He simply cocks his head to one side, holding Charles in a considering gaze. Even so, Charles doesn't need his telepathy to tell him he has been judged foolish and naive.


	3. Chapter 3

**(Azazel)**

When next Azazel accompanies Magneto into battle, he consciously alters his tactics. Xavier's arguments have not swayed him in any meaningful way—Azazel has never had the luxury of naiveté—but it is a simple enough matter to corral the humans instead of killing them. There is a natural cave system beneath the bunker Magneto has targeted for the stealing of vital equipment, and Azazel deposits the humans deep enough below ground that they will be at least a day in surfacing. More than enough time for Magneto's forces to obtain what they need.

Magneto gives him a strange look after, once they return to base—in the privacy of the empty briefing room after everyone else has departed. 

"You've had some change of heart?" Magneto asks, more vexed than displeased. His expression is wary. Azazel can suppose easily enough what his concerns are. Azazel has been spending a great deal of time in Charles Xavier's company. Magneto is thinking, perhaps, that Xavier can be quite persuasive. He is thinking they may have a problem.

Azazel smirks, dismissing Magneto's concerns.

"Not at all. But your noble professor seems to place considerable stock in human life. It seems a simple enough matter to humor him, when such care does not endanger the mission." He does not explain the obvious point that, given a choice between saving human life and ensuring the success of Magneto's mission, he would have allowed every one of them to die. If his priorities are not already clear, words will not make them so.

But the tension bleeds from Magneto's posture, and Azazel knows he has been understood. They will not have to revisit this conversation. Magneto will not try to argue him out of this new, pragmatic stance, and Azazel will cater to Xavier's naive imperative as far as possible without sacrificing greater objectives. 

It is a strange balance, but one that will certainly hold.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel returns to Xavier's school late that night, well into the deepest hours of darkness. He is surprised to find the professor awake and waiting for him.

Charles evinces no surprise at Azazel's abrupt arrival. Though they've not had opportunity to establish habit in this strange arrangement, it is clear Xavier knew he was coming. Xavier holds a drink in hand, something rich and amber. A second glass sits on the low table between his chair and the one adjacent. 

Azazel accepts the apparent invitation, curling his tail to the side and sitting in the empty chair. Xavier's eyes follow his movements as Azazel lifts the drink, swirling the amber liquid and then taking a sip.

Expensive whiskey. Appropriate somehow. 

The Brotherhood's recent activities were too discreet to have made the news this quickly. Xavier must be relying on other sources. Azazel finds himself unsurprised.

He is more surprised at the silence that persists even after he accepts the drink. It's not the quiet that comes of searching for words, but an easier stillness. Silence that settles when there is simply nothing that needs saying. 

Eventually, when both glasses are empty and the late night has become an obscenely early morning, Xavier uncurls from his chair and rises to his feet.

He pauses, regarding Azazel with piercing eyes. "Thank you." There is unmeasured intensity in the soft voice.

Then he turns and leaves, off to bed most likely, and for several long minutes Azazel does not move.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The next day dawns with glaring brightness. Azazel has not slept—he needs little sleep compared to those around him—and Xavier finds him in the communal kitchen on the second floor.

Azazel ignores Xavier in favor of searching for breakfast, but in the end closes the icebox without removing anything to eat. 

"Something is troubling you?" Azazel asks crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the cool metal door. Xavier is seated at the table nearby, hands clasped beneath his chin, a cryptic expression in his eyes. 

"Just a small quandary." Charles purses his lips. "I can't get rid of you can I? There's nothing I can say to convince you to leave me in peace."

Azazel inclines his head, acknowledging the point.

"Then I suppose there's nothing for it." Xavier stands and turns for the door. "Come along then, I'll show you to your room."

"My room," Azazel echoes, taken aback.

"Yes." Xavier pauses in the doorway and glances back over his shoulder. "If you intend to be constantly underfoot, I see no practical alternative."

Azazel continues to stare, long enough that Xavier asks, "Are you coming?"

A shake of his head, a fleeting pause, and Azazel follows without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

**(Charles)**

Azazel's visits only become more frequent after that, and eventually Charles stops being startled by the abrupt appearance of his persistent shadow. Surreal as it is—frustrating and irritating too, if he's honest—Azazel's presence becomes something he simply takes for granted. He comes and goes at will, and even the other inhabitants of the mansion quickly stop taking heed.

There's inevitable concern, but it simmers unspoken. Charles can see it in Hank's watchful eyes and hear it in Alex's distracted thoughts, though no one says anything aloud. Perhaps they sense the inevitability of the situation, despite not being in on the specifics. Perhaps they simply take Charles' lack of concern as license not to worry.

Perhaps the fact that Charles has given Azazel a room of his own simply makes him a part of their lives in a quiet, indisputable way.

Charles never asks where Azazel is going when he leaves, or where he's been when he returns. He knows every departure means a summons from Erik, and Azazel will never give him a straight answer. Reading Azazel's mind would be equally fruitless. Charles would never learn enough to interfere with Erik's plans, and the fragments he could garner would most likely drive him mad. Discretion seems the saner, if not the better, part of valor.

Besides. Charles has secrets of his own. More than once enacts missions to coincide with Azazel's matching absences, knowing full well it will mean his X-Men can act unhindered by the unpredictability and chaos of Azazel's presence. Azazel never calls him out on these excursions, but always when their paths cross again there is something sharp in Azazel's stark blue gaze—some murmuring disapproval marring the surface of his thoughts.

Charles is unapologetic. He has his own agenda, and ambitious as it is, there's no space in it for catering to Erik's possessive paranoia. Changing the world for the better is a tall order. Charles has no obligation to make Azazel's uninvited task any easier.

He has just enough time to regret his priorities when he loses his footing on the gargoyled top of a gothic cathedral, several stories up from ground level in the heart of the city. There's no one on this side of the roof—only the cold-eyed man who pushed him off-balance in the first place. Charles' people are occupied with their own skirmishes, trying to contain a violent cabal of mutants without doing them more harm than necessary. There's no one to come to Charles' aid as his hand flails out and grasps at empty air, as gravity drags him towards the street below.

Close as Charles has come to death before, he's not prepared to die now, and futile rage clogs his throat alongside the sharp, bitter bite of fear.

He closes his eyes against the rushing wind, the ground is an instant away—

Strong, impossible hands are suddenly on him, grasping him securely, and along with the murmur of a familiar mind comes a sensation Charles instantly recognizes. A sharp shift of air, a tightening in his gut, the jarring rush of displacement as reality itself bends to make way—

His eyes are still closed as reality unbends, and he grunts in pain at the bruising impact that follows, far less fatal than the one he expected. Warm weight pins him down. The floor is hard and unpleasant beneath his back, and finally Charles opens his eyes. 

Azazel peers down at him with obvious displeasure, a sentiment mirrored in the guarded trickle of his surface thoughts. He makes no move to release Charles—if anything his weight settles more firmly, hands shifting, holding Charles down all the harder as though trying to communicate without words his supreme disapproval of Charles' choices. His fingers slip around Charles' left wrist and tighten like censure, but for the moment Charles is simply grateful to be alive.

"You are a difficult man to protect," Azazel says in a low, gruff voice. 

Adrenaline is still ricocheting brightly in Charles' blood, and something in Azazel's tone stops his breath in his chest. There's an unexpected intensity there. Not just disapproval but actual anger. Charles stares up at him, wide eyes disbelieving. He is suddenly, alarmingly aware of Azazel's presence. Azazel's weight and proximity are mere happenstance, but there's something too intimate in the overheated press of their bodies. 

Azazel is all furnace heat and firm muscle beneath the finely-tailored fabric of his suit, and Charles' face heats with the unexpected direction of his own thoughts.

Perhaps, if he is very lucky, Azazel won't notice. Perhaps Azazel will get off of Charles now, and they will both stand, and Charles can continue to not think about the strength of Azazel's hands holding him down.

But Azazel must see _something_ , because the glint in his eyes changes and shutters, darkens with curious questions. There's something too knowing in that gaze, and Charles needs to say something to disarm the surreal tension that suddenly surrounds them.

"I never asked to be protected," he snaps, and the assertion does the trick. That considering look in Azazel's eyes vanishes, shifts back to anger. Azazel pushes himself sharply off of Charles, standing with an almost feline grace.

Charles is less graceful when he follows, but Azazel offers no hand up. Charles would refuse it in any case. Azazel may have saved his life, but Charles still has a job to do.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel vanishes well before the fighting is through, and doesn't reappear even as the X-Men are dodging the media and cleaning up the mess left in the wake of so much explosive violence. Clearly he doesn't intend to return with them to the school. Charles is not the slightest bit disappointed at this fact.

The following two days are uneventful. On the third, just as Charles is starting to wonder about his shadow's continued absence, Azazel turns up with his usual lack of warning.

He materializes at Charles' back, so close Charles can feel the inhuman heat of him warming along his spine. 

Charles manages not to broadcast his startlement, but he doesn't know what to make of Azazel's silent proximity. The lack of respect for personal space is nothing new—Charles is becoming very nearly accustomed to being manhandled out of danger—but this is different. There is no danger here. Only vacant silence one moment, Charles at the window gazing out at the grounds below—then Azazel crowding behind him, sudden heat accompanied by the fading electric scent of matter displacement.

The quiet lengthens uncomfortably, and Azazel doesn't back off. Charles holds perfectly motionless, and a faint flush rises to his cheeks. He can't retreat without pushing past Azazel, and he doesn't want to acknowledge his discomfort so obviously.

He doesn't know the reason for this invasion of his space, and the curiosity is almost enough to send him rummaging deeper in Azazel's mind. Something stops him—something besides the nebulous respect for privacy that Charles barely possesses—something that might have to do with the way Charles' face is heating and his skin feels suddenly too tight.

He closes off the direction of his thoughts with vicious determination. He will not allow Azazel to confuse him. He will not let himself be distracted. He can't afford to forget the simple reality of who and what Azazel is.

Azazel is a murderer. A cool master of violence with no qualms about taking human life. This fact does not change simply because he's currently humoring Charles. It means little that Azazel is for the moment _not_ killing humans in some sort of inexplicable deference to Charles' moral code. Azazel thinks him naive, and Charles can't convince him otherwise. 

He knows better than to trust a man who respects life only so far as he must in order to humor the whims of another. 

By force of stubborn will, Charles swallows down the confused warmth in his chest. He keeps his posture loose, his hands unclenched at his sides, as at last he finds his voice.

"It's almost dinnertime for the students." The words sound steady and casual, though it requires a decided effort to keep them that way. "Have you eaten?"

"No," Azazel says. He doesn't move away, but now that Charles has a pretext he can shoulder past Azazel, put some distance between them without admitting his retreat. 

"Come along then," Charles says, moving for the door.

Azazel's eyes follow him too closely, gauging and curious, but Charles pretends not to notice.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Perhaps Charles is too busy, or perhaps there's something willful in the fact that he isn't paying attention—but he doesn't realize the significance of this particular Sunday until Hank grunts "Happy birthday, Professor" as they pass each other in the hall outside the labs.

It stuns him to stillness, but Hank is already around the corner. Charles isn't sure how he could have forgotten, wonders if he ought to do something to mark the occasion.

In the end he doesn't bother. There's too much to do—there is _always_ too much to do in the running of a school, small but growing steadily with each passing month. No one but Hank seems to be aware; at least, no one else says anything. Charles is a telepath—he knows better than to suspect (fear) some sort of ill-advised surprise party. He knows there will be no one else acknowledging the date, and the truth is he's grateful. 

Last year on this day, Charles was in the painful midst of physical therapy, following a surgery that could have killed him as surely as given him back the use of his legs. Before that, he can't remember a birthday without Raven. Every year the same, a bucket of ice cream, an excess of soda (or in later years, tequila) and laughter in the clean but empty space of the attic. They would watch the sun set brilliantly outside an enormously elegant window, bathing them in pink and orange fading light. 

He thinks Raven almost kissed him once, when they were teenagers and had no one in the world but each other. She didn't, though, and Charles has never been sure, never dared to ask. 

Raven isn't here now. There's no one to share ridiculous traditions with—no one Charles would trouble with such a request. He wants Raven back—the woman who was (is) his sister in so many ways other than blood—but he is not naive enough to hope that she'll come, even if she remembers. 

Charles often feels alone, since Cuba and the most painful goodbyes of his life. Since he sent Moira away with no memory of the school he intended to build. Since Erik burst in and out of his life like a violent storm front, gone so quickly Charles still doesn't understand how he can miss the man so much. They knew each other a week, but it feels like a lifetime. Erik's absence hurts every bit as much as Raven's. It hurts in different ways, a constant, quiet throb that never quite fades.

Charles takes no ice cream or alcohol with him up to the quiet, empty attic this year. He goes alone and sits cross-legged on the smooth wood before the decorative window. The sun has not yet begun setting, and the sky is a patchwork of pale clouds and soft, supple blue. 

He startles at the flash of red beside him, the muffled bang of sound as Azazel materializes to his left. Azazel is standing at the tallest point in the attic, the spot where the roof peaks just high enough for a man to stand upright. He looks down at Charles with a single quirked eyebrow and the barest hint of a smile. There is a bottle of expensive tequila in his left hand.

"Professor," Azazel says with a nod, then sits in a graceful folding of limbs. His knee bumps Charles' thigh as he settles beside him, placing the unopened bottle between them like an offering.

"Raven sent you," Charles realizes, schooling the surprise from his face.

Azazel inclines his head in acknowledgment, but says nothing. He doesn't wish Charles a happy birthday, but there's something alarmingly like sympathy in his eyes. 

Charles reaches for the bottle Azazel has placed between them and lifts it in a low salute.

Azazel hasn't come equipped with glasses, and Charles is not inclined to fetch them himself. He supposes he could ask Azazel to teleport down to the kitchen and save time, but that seems a foolish use of the mutant's incredible talent, so instead Charles takes a first drink straight from the bottle and then offers it to his unexpected companion.

Charles is not normally a melancholy drunk, but tonight seems to be the exception that proves the rule. Something about the fact that he's drinking with Azazel—that he is otherwise isolated tonight, in this mansion that is his home, where he needs to be an unassailable figure of authority—catches in his throat. 

He is drinking with Azazel, because he has no friends to share this tradition—and the fact makes him irritable and sad, and perhaps more belligerent than he ought to be. He speaks little, even when Azazel offers mundane openings for conversation, and the responses he does manage are clipped and impatient. The fuzzier his thoughts grow with drink, the more heavily he feels the weight of discontent tightening his bones.

At least Azazel seems more amused than offended by Charles' brusque manner.

After a lingering silence and a long, slow drink of tequila, Azazel turns glinting blue eyes on him and says, "I am none of the people with whom you wish to be spending this day."

"Well." Charles considers obfuscating, but it seems a ludicrous effort when Azazel clearly knows better. Perhaps it is also the alcohol softening the firm edge of his polite instincts that lets him admit, "If I'm to be bluntly honest about it..."

"By all means," Azazel prompts, corner of his mouth twitching higher as he hands the tequila back.

"Then no." Charles accepts the handoff a little less steadily than he would like, and settles the weight of the bottle in his lap instead of drinking from it. "No, you are not at all the person I want to be drinking with tonight. I don't like you very much." Too honest. That last bit was not supposed to sneak out. It's an impolitic truth at best, blandly rude and inhospitable. He braces himself for Azazel to take offense.

But Azazel, improbably, looks not the least bit offended. His tail, a fidgety presence that brushes against Charles at odd intervals, twists and slips unconsciously around Charles' near wrist before untwining just as smoothly and retreating somewhere behind them.

"We are not friends," Azazel agrees with a dry smile.

Charles, more relieved than he should be, raises the bottle to his lips for a slow swallow to fill the lengthy pause. He's startled into choking at Azazel's next words.

"Magneto does not send his regards. But I am quite certain he would be here himself if he could." 

Charles doesn't ask why Azazel speaks of Erik and not Raven. He doesn't poke around in Azazel's head to discern where this sudden shift in topic came from, though the temptation is strong. But it's none of these concerns that catch in Charles' throat and bring unbidden anger alight in his chest. 

"Don't call him that," he says in a voice gone tight, anger surging irrationally at the surprised look Azazel tilts at him. 

"It is his name."

"His name is _Erik_." Charles glares down at the half empty bottle in his hands, at the play of eerie sunset slanting through the golden liquid and casting uneven patches of tinted light across Charles' clothes. There's a bitter aftertaste on his tongue from the words, and when he slants his gaze towards Azazel he finds something too much like pity in the mutant's eyes.

"Only to you, Comrade," Azazel says softly, and Charles has never heard him sound so kind. He dislikes it, would tell Azazel to stop it if he could find enough voice to speak.

Charles doesn't want to think about Erik. He wants even less to think about Magneto. Cuba is well over a year behind him now, but the hurt surrounding Erik's departure still stings. It burns like betrayal—it _was_ a betrayal—but in the intoxicated fog of his thoughts, Charles turns events over in his head and realizes he's not entirely sure who did the betraying.

He could never have followed Erik. That path is not for him, he can't accept the assertion that violence is the only answer. But he will never forget the look in Erik's eyes in that instant—the moment they both recognized the impasse between them for what it was. It was a look that said Charles was letting him down and breaking his heart, even as Charles bled out in Erik's arms.

"You are still angry with him," Azazel observes, startling him from bloody thoughts and remembered pain, focusing Charles and drawing his anger into a resigned ball of frustration deep in his chest. His ire has nowhere to go; venting it at Azazel will make him feel no better, and tonight at least he knows it's not Azazel he is upset with. He doesn't want a fight.

"Of course I'm still angry with him," Charles sighs tiredly. A lifetime could pass and he will still be angry. He'll never stop regretting what he and Erik could have been, what they could have accomplished together. He will always ache for the loss of a best friend he knew too short a time, a hollow place behind his ribs that has yet to heal.

"But not for the bullet," Azazel says in a tone of genuine surprise. His eyebrows rise high, and he regards Charles with a new, cryptic expression.

"No." 

Azazel is right. Of all the causes Charles has for anger towards Erik, the excruciating physical injury has long since ceased to hold a place on his list. It was an accident, careless and cruel but an accident just the same, and it seems somehow irrelevant in the face of greater failures.

He has no intention of trying to explain these things to Azazel. The look on his face says he already understands a little too well, and Charles does not intend to enlighten him further. He will not willfully make himself more vulnerable to this man, who is not his friend and not his ally, but not quite an enemy either.

Azazel doesn't press him, but claims the bottle from his hands and takes a slow, contemplative drink.

"For what it is worth," Azazel says at last. "I think he regrets quite more than you do."

Charles grunts a low, humorless laugh, but cuts it off before it can rise in volume and turn manic.

"I'm not sure that's possible."

"Nevertheless." Azazel sets the tequila aside. "He will never apologize. But he will forever regret."

Azazel probably means it as a balm, but all Charles feels in that moment is despair.


	5. Chapter 5

**(Azazel)**

It is after the professor's birthday that Azazel starts paying closer attention to Charles Xavier.

He hasn't resented his extra assignment, or his time spent at Xavier's strange and impractical school. He finds the man fascinating in a contradictory sort of way—charismatic and inexplicably compelling for such a somber, naive fool. Azazel will never stop thinking the man's ideals both quaint and ridiculous, yet there is something attractive in how desperately earnest he is about them—an undeniable appeal born from the intensity of his convictions.

There is something more obviously attractive in Xavier's face and figure. Azazel can appreciate a pretty face; he won't deny the idle fantasies he has entertained.

But after an honest glimpse beneath the defenses Xavier always holds so firmly, Azazel finds idle fancy shifting into something else entirely. His lack of respect for Xavier's personal space, once simply a way to entertain himself at the professor's expense, becomes deliberate, a calculated testing of just how close he can get before Xavier will retreat. 

Azazel is fascinated, and he has never been very good at walking away from things that fascinate him. 

He has no definite intentions. But there is a spark of something beneath his skin, stronger than the fleeting curiosity and flicker of speculation he humored before. 

He saves Charles Xavier's life again. And once more a week later. He rescues him half a dozen times from the inevitable danger of his own impulsive idiocy. Always he is as physical as possible in enacting his rescues—he enjoys having Xavier pinned under his weight, trapped beneath his hands, held down for his own good but also because Azazel likes the feel of him there—and always he notes with fascination the way Charles responds. The high flush that darkens the professor's cheeks, the widening of his eyes, the dilated pupils and quickened pulse. 

And always Azazel wonders if Xavier is even aware of his reactions. Perhaps he is as naive and clueless about this—about the way he responds to being overpowered and held down—as he is about so much else.

It is this curiosity that begins to dominate Azazel's thoughts, driving him from idle fantasy to considered distraction. The fascination smolders behind his ribs, growing less and less idle by the day.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Xavier has proven himself deft at ignoring Azazel, in the strange span of their acquaintance, and Azazel takes no offense at the fact that the professor pays no heed to him today. The basement laboratory is empty but for themselves and whatever microbes Xavier is examining through a bulky microscope. Azazel has no interest in petri dishes and salt solutions, but he has interest enough in Charles Xavier, and he watches the dull work without growing bored.

He doesn't ask what Xavier is doing, if it is research or simply preparation for some class he intends to teach. He finds he doesn't care, would much rather let his gaze and his mind wander.

If he were of a mind to distract Charles from his work, he might try to make his thoughts heard as they veer into greedier territory. As it is, he is content to keep his fantasies to himself as images cascade unhurried into his head.

There is a communal kitchen on the second floor, into which few students venture but the small faculty uses at all hours. Azazel has seen Xavier rooting through the fridge in that kitchen enough times that the image conjures easily, the tight curve of his backside in well-tailored trousers matching the view before Azazel now. The Xavier in Azazel's mind doesn't know he's being watched—he doesn't notice he's no longer alone until Azazel slips in close behind him.

He imagines the shattering crash of whatever Xavier is holding as it slips from his fingers, shock at the possessive line of heat as Azazel presses himself flush along Xavier's back. A sharp intake of breath but no move to pull away. Azazel's eyes drop half closed as he imagines nuzzling at Xavier's throat, as he pictures the warm twine of his tail winding around Xavier's wrist, the quickening of Xavier's pulse beneath his mouth.

He imagines reaching forward, pressing his palm pressing to Xavier's stomach before sliding meaningfully lower—another sharp inhale from the Xavier in his mind, a jerk of the wrist restrained by the tight coils of Azazel's tail—as Azazel cups him through his expensive trousers and bites the pale column of his throat hard enough to mark.

The fantasy fractures then into disjointed glimpses—Azazel's hand opening Xavier's fly, slipping inside—Xavier groaning as Azazel's fist closes around him and strokes roughly. A separate moment, Xavier in Azazel's bed, moaning aloud as Azazel's fingers twist deeper inside him. Xavier writhes beneath him in a way that could be wanton need, could just as easily be a desperate struggle to escape as Azazel pins him with strong hands and twining tail.

The Xavier in Azazel's mind cries out in both pleasure and pain as Azazel fucks suddenly into him—

An audible shatter of glass sounds from across the laboratory, as the Xavier here in the room fumbles and drops the dish of specimens he was carrying to his workspace. 

Azazel's gaze rises, and he finds Xavier blushing furiously and avoiding his eyes with a determination that speaks volumes. He hurries to clean up the mess he's made, careful of the shattered glass, and all the while he looks anywhere at all besides Azazel, stubbornly ignoring the way Azazel's focus tracks his every movement. 

As Azazel watches in silence, a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face.


	6. Chapter 6

**(Charles)**

Looking back on recent months, Charles finds he can't pinpoint the moment Azazel's attention shifted from humoring exasperation to... whatever this is. Charles is accustomed to this kind of attention, from men and women alike, but there's something disconcerting in the sharp-edged intensity with which Azazel now watches him. Whenever Charles meets Azazel's eyes he finds an assessing heat there, an almost taunting glint, challenging Charles to look deeper, into the thoughts behind that expression.

Charles knows well enough what he would find, and he lets the challenge go unanswered. 

Now is not the time for distraction. He's busy with his school, busy training the X-Men, busy protecting mutants and humanity alike from a hundred mounting threats. He has friends and allies and students who need him, and there is no place in his life for a confused attraction to a mutant who could once have killed him without remorse. 

Even if that mutant has insinuated himself inextricably into Charles' life. Even if he has scaled back the force of his violence against the humans, in deference to Charles' wishes. Even if his complete disregard for Charles' personal space doesn't discomfit Charles in precisely the ways it should.

But Charles quickly discovers that even stubbornly ignoring the invitation in Azazel's eyes is next to useless when Azazel _wants_ him to see. For a being with no particular telepathic sensitivity, Azazel is remarkably skilled at making himself heard—and in the weeks that follow the incident in the lab, Charles finds himself privy to a quantity of sexual fantasies that can only be deliberate.

The first may have been simple self-indulgence, not calculated to get under Charles' skin; but the myriad scenarios that follow leave no question at all that Charles is meant to witness.

He continues to disregard the attention as best he can, but he quickly discovers that Azazel is impossible to ignore.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He's not at all startled when Azazel appears in his study, quietly and without interrupting Charles' work. Charles doesn't acknowledge Azazel's company (not entirely unexpected after several days' absence), instead continuing through the enormous stack of paperwork that comes with running an educational institution. For all that he would rather spend all his focus on teaching and training, Charles has discovered administration requires an alarming amount of his attention.

But it's difficult to hold his concentration where it belongs when, even from across the room, he can feel Azazel's eyes pinning him without apology. It's even more difficult a moment later when the first bright edges of Azazel's imaginings flicker in Charles' mind.

At first, only images leak through. Azazel's strong hands closing around Charles' wrists, his tail twining smoothly around Charles' throat—Azazel's eyes, piercing and blue, staring up at him as Azazel drops smoothly and suddenly to his knees—

Against his better judgment—without his conscious will—Charles' attention slips, the paper in his hands blurs before his eyes, and the scene in Azazel's mind swells more vivid around him. Not just images now, but sounds and sensations. Azazel has a powerful imagination, and Charles' face flushes warm. There's the slip of fabric as Azazel drags his trousers down his hips, the smirking glint of purpose in Azazel's eyes, an even more vivid flash of heat and sensation as the Azazel in his mind closes his lips around Charles' cock and swallows him deep.

Charles sits very still at his desk as the images and sensations roll sharply in his brain. He is too stubborn to give Azazel the victory of acknowledging this fantasy—he doesn't want to admit how off-balance he feels, any more than he wants to admit to the southward rush of heat or the hammering of his own pulse in his ears. 

If he opens his mouth, what can he say besides, ' _Stop_ '? And how can he ask Azazel to stop without admitting the effect Azazel's thoughts are having on him?

Better simply to wait without protest. Azazel's amusement with this pastime will eventually fade, and Charles can afford to wait.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He is alone the next time, though Azazel must still be near for the vision to resound so clearly in Charles' thoughts. His shields are not up, and so there is no gradual shift of his focus into the thrall of the fantasy—just the sudden surge of image and sense, filling his thoughts and pulling him abruptly in.

He is at once observing and experiencing, a conflicted shiver of too much information at once as the Azazel in his mind corners Charles in the darkest corner of Hank's lab. Azazel has never been in Hank's lab, or so Charles thought, but the revelation that he is wrong barely pings his awareness through the sight and sensation of Azazel's hands on him, grasping and shoving and forcing Charles to his knees. The fantasy skips smoothly past the awkward fumble of buttons, zippers, fabric, and in the span of a blink there is the nudge of the naked head of Azazel's cock against Charles' sealed lips. 

Charles instinctively tries to open his mouth, but this is not his fantasy. He is not in control, and _taking_ control would require an extra effort—not to mention an acknowledgment of what he is seeing, feeling, experiencing—and so instead of passive cooperation, he finds himself refusing the wordless command. A different flavor of encounter, then, and he is surprised at the unexpected heat that twists in his gut as Azazel's mental self reaches down and fists cruel fingers in Charles' hair.

Still Charles' lips do not part, and for an instant the vision shifts and Charles is looking not up at Azazel (or at Azazel's thick, hard cock), but down into his own eyes, icy blue and wide with unmistakable rebellion. He sees resistance in the line of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. He feels the thrill of challenge wind like desire through Azazel, and then Charles is back on his knees as Azazel's tail curls forward and winds about his throat once, twice, three tight coils.

Three tight coils that tighten even further, and Charles feels the phantom pressure, knows them for a threat. He parts his lips at last, eyes falling shut, and the hand fisted in his hair drags him in, forcing him forward as Azazel thrusts deep. Even here, in the nebulous contours of fantasy, Charles' eyes water as his jaw spreads wider and he gags around the length of flesh being forced down his throat.

Then there's the click and creak of a door close by, so vivid that for a moment Charles thinks someone has walked in on him—prays he looks merely lost in thought—but then realizes no, the sound is in his mind. It's the door at the other end of Hank's lab, barely visible from the shadowed corner where Azazel has put Charles on his knees.

The Charles in Azazel's fantasy freezes, makes a violent effort to pull away—but Azazel holds him effortlessly in place. The coils of tail around Charles' neck tighten and hold him fast, as the hand fisted in his hair loosens, and Azazel's hand curls around the base of Charles' skull, actually forces him further forward along the length of cock already choking him.

"Just a second," calls whoever has entered (no voice in particular) to someone waiting in the hall beyond. "I left it on the counter by the door, I'll catch up with you in a minute!"

Even though it's not real, Charles finds himself praying that whoever it is won't turn on the light. He can't breathe around the gagging length of Azazel's cock, buried to the hilt in Charles' throat now, choking him and making it almost impossible to stay silent. His nose presses to the wiry curls at Azazel's belly, a sensation almost too vivid, and the seconds stretch impossibly long—longer than this moment could possibly last in reality, long enough that if this were real Charles would have given them away a dozen times. The only sound is the rustle of papers and equipment near the door, until at last the intruder finds whatever he's looking for and departs.

The door clicks shut, and the silence breaks as Azazel allows Charles to retreat. Choking, coughing, gasping for breath, Charles is surprised at how even here, in simple imaginings, Azazel's hand on him can feel so steady and sure.

He receives mere seconds to recover before Azazel drags him forward again, thrusting again into the waiting heat of Charles' throat until he is fully sheathed, motionless and forcing Charles to feel every inch of the flesh filling him.

Then Azazel moves. 

There is nothing gentle between them as the fantasy plays out before Charles. Azazel gives no ground, offers no leeway, allows Charles no control as Azazel sets a brutal pace. Azazel's tail loosens fractionally around Charles' throat, but his hands frame Charles' face with unyielding strength and he fucks Charles' mouth with a forcefulness edging on violence. Charles can _taste_ the ferocity of Azazel's thrusts, feel the thrill of domination as Azazel imagines taking Charles this way, _forcing_ him—

Fantasy only. Charles knows this. He's a telepath, and he's been in Azazel's head enough times to know he has nothing to fear.

But somehow the knowledge only makes what he's seeing now that much worse. Without fear there is only the irrational heat, the uninvited eagerness at watching (feeling) Azazel hold him down and take what he wants.

Charles has never known himself to want something like this. He's far from comfortable with the way Azazel's fantasy is heating his blood and working beneath his skin, and when at last he is alone in his own head again, Charles curls his hands into fists and waits for uninvited arousal to fade.

When he sees Azazel the next morning, it's all Charles can do to pretend a calm he does not feel.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel is relentless, almost as though trying to force Charles' hand. A test, or a challenge, or perhaps both. Perhaps he hopes that if he pushes a little bit harder, Charles will say something. Perhaps he hopes Charles will capitulate. Perhaps he is only trying to see how far he must push before Charles calls him out.

A dozen times Charles nearly snaps. Azazel no longer confines his fantasies to quiet moments with no witnesses, and Charles has to learn fast to hide his own flustered responses—retreat, regroup, or in most cases simply find somewhere private to wait out Azazel's attention span.

He could block Azazel out entirely—in fact he does, a couple of times, when retreat is not an option—but it feels too much like admitting defeat. And for all the dozen times he nearly speaks up—nearly corners Azazel to yell at him, to demand answers, to command him to stop at once—he always stops short. He tells himself he doesn't know why, but the truth is murkier, an embarrassment spinning tighter and tighter around the simple fact that he can't put any of this to words. He can't afford to be the one to drag whatever this is out of the realm of simple fantasy and make it real.

But he knows, just as surely, that Azazel won't either. Which leaves them in limbo. It leaves Charles living, breathing, dreaming Azazel's fantasies and upholding the weak pretense that he hasn't noticed anything amiss.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He teaches in his office, as often as he simply works here. Class sizes run small in all subject areas, though the student population is slowly growing. Charles can only accommodate five or six students in his office at a time, but even so he prefers to teach here. The office is a quieter, more comfortable environment, and one in which he can be truly at ease (or as close as he ever comes). Three blackboards have been squeezed in, two freestanding and one mounted on the wall nearest the window.

All three are constantly covered in notes and diagrams, some clearer than others, and whatever the class, Charles finds it an ongoing battle, choosing what to erase to make room for the next topic in the syllabus. 

Azazel knows better than to interfere when Charles is actually teaching, but as the last student disappears out the door Charles realizes Azazel must be especially close. He can feel the familiar warmth of the mutant's mind now, not actively reaching for him—Azazel doesn't have the mental sensitivity for that—but broadcasting loud and clear and deliberate just the same. A familiar salvo of intent that sends Charles upright and across the office to lock the door, because he knows what's coming. He knows even before fresh images flicker across his mind, and as he drops even the faintest vestiges of his shields he tells himself that it's only expedient. There's no point fighting, and that's the only reason he doesn't resist the flood of images that follows.

It's his own office he sees, blackboards filled with lists and equations, himself at the very desk he is moving back to now. Azazel appears in the vision abruptly, not out of thin air but through the slamming door. He bears the aura of a hunter in the sharp line of his shoulders, and in the straight line he cuts towards Charles. Charles watches as though from a distance as his fantasy self stands from the desk, moving too quickly and knocking the chair down in his startled haste. Azazel ignores the fallen chair and slips smoothly around the desk, Charles standing his ground before him with a determined look in his eyes.

Then Charles is looking out his own eyes, not watching from the sidelines any longer as Azazel's hands close on him. He feels strength and heat as strong fingers tighten around his biceps, and then Azazel shoves him deliberately off balance—shoves him back against the sturdiest of the three blackboards, the one mounted on the wall beside the window. Charles hears himself grunt aloud as his back impacts the cool slate, and even here in the realm of fantasy he cringes for the smudging of his notes as Azazel crowds in close—then he can't spare any more thoughts for such trivialities, as Azazel's mouth finds the beating pulse point in his throat and draws a startled groan from Charles' chest. There's the sting of teeth, the slick taunt of Azazel's too-hot tongue following the bite.

It takes him a moment to identify the crash-rustle-clattering sound that follows. A quick glance tells him Azazel has just cleared the desk with impatient expedience—by brushing everything aside with his tail, sending the contents crashing noisily to the floor. Even knowing this is only an image in his mind, Charles cringes at the mess, and Azazel smirks down at him, amusement flashing in ice blue eyes.

The scene shifts, speeds, a feeling almost like vertigo as Azazel manhandles him towards the now-clear desk and with a rough shove, bends Charles forward over it. Charles grunts as his chest impacts the cool mahogany, but he doesn't (can't) try to resist as Azazel pins him there, with a possessive hand curled around the back of his neck. He squirms uselessly when Azazel opens his trousers and yanks them down his hips, baring Charles' ass to the cool air and—even here, even in pointless fantasy—leaves him feeling all too exposed.

The Azazel Charles is watching (feeling) is infinitely patient as he slides slick fingers into Charles—as he twists the digits deeper and works Charles open, almost gently, the sensations startlingly real as they fill Charles' mind. 

Then the fingers disappear, and Charles knows what to expect next, knows the feel of a blunt cock seeking entrance—

But it's a different sensation that taunts him next. A more slender touch, something smooth and almost hesitant, and he twists beneath Azazel's hold, trying to catch a glimpse, unsure and curious. He sees a look of rapt focus on the too-clear image of Azazel's face, and then the red arc of the strong tail disappearing behind Charles—

Oh. Oh god.

"Is that—?" Charles gasps as the slender touch slides deeper, a simultaneous ripple moving through what he can see of Azazel's tail, and yes, apparently it _is_ , and Charles inhales sharply as the wider base of that arrowhead tail stretches him wider. 

Christ, it's only a fantasy. It's only images and other imaginings in Azazel's head. But it _feels_ real, and Charles twists, resisting now, because Azazel has killed people with that tail and Charles isn't just going to lie here (even in the privacy of his own mind) and let Azazel slide it deeper inside him, fuck him with it—no. Not even here.

Azazel seems to understand, because the tail disappears, so abruptly Charles grunts his surprise. Then the more familiar sensation, the flared head of Azazel's cock nudging slickly at his entrance. There's the breathless instant of anticipation— 

Then Azazel thrusts forward, cock filling Charles, drawing a cry from his throat. Charles' body tries to arch off the desk, but he's too securely pinned by Azazel's hands. Azazel's weight settles along his back, and all Charles can do is breathe.

The fantasy plays out in taunting detail, a dozen sensations that heat Charles' face and catch his breath in his throat. He watches (feels) Azazel come inside him, rough thrusts stuttering to an uneven staccato, and only then does the scene begin to fade. Azazel's mind is quieting, no longer clamoring for Charles' attention. Perhaps he's even retreating to a greater distance and leaving Charles alone with his own conflicted arousal. Charles' hands clench into fists atop his desk, remembering all too vividly the images Azazel shared with him.

When Azazel disappears the next day, summoned away by some command from Erik, Charles can't help feeling relieved at the respite. There's a certainty closing on him, an irrational yet inescapable sense that there's a line in the sand and it's about to be crossed, or perhaps obliterated by the tide. 

And what comes then, Charles can only guess.


	7. Chapter 7

**(Azazel)**

Azazel is not one to allow distraction to interfere with his duties, and so he has no trouble leaving Charles Xavier behind him and standing at Magneto's side when summoned for a vital mission.

It's not until after, when he returns with the Brotherhood to Magneto's nearest hideaway, that Azazel learns what the X-Men have been up to in his absence. There's a news broadcast telling a disjointed narrative that chills Azazel's blood in his veins. Dangerous. Foolish. He's quite certain that the timing is no coincidence, and his tail lashes in the air as he imagines explaining to Professor Xavier just what Azazel thinks of him throwing himself in harm's way when Azazel can't be there to watch his back.

_Now_ he is distracted, of course. And surprised at how angry he finds himself, hot with territorial rage. The professor could have been so easily hurt. Azazel doesn't for a second trust those ridiculous X-Men to keep the idiot from getting himself killed out of sheer stubbornness. 

Azazel is needed here—he can't return to the school without being sure Magneto no longer requires his particular skills—but in the moments of solitude he has, there is only one thing on his mind. 

He is well accustomed to thoughts of Charles Xavier. Even when he is not actively trying to torment the professor, Azazel's mind is wont to drift down heated paths and conjure idle fantasy.

But something shifts along those paths as Azazel considers Xavier now. There is nothing idle in the thoughts warming his blood, the curiosity he allows himself. He wonders if Xavier has had male lovers, if he's ever been fucked. Azazel hopes not. He wants to be the first. He wants this conquest to be his and his alone.

He wants to hold Xavier down and watch those naive blue eyes widen as Azazel takes him—as Azazel fills him and fucks him and makes him feel the rough strength of Azazel's ownership.

He doesn't consider the possibility that Xavier will say no. They understand each other now. For all his evident discomfort, in all the months Azazel has been sharing his fantasies, Xavier has never come out and told him to stop.

The professor will not rebuff him. Of this Azazel is confident.

He waits no longer than he has to. The instant Magneto dismisses him, Azazel disappears, bound for Xavier's school at record speed.

He is going to claim what is rightfully his.


	8. Chapter 8

**(Charles)**

Charles has no explanation for the sudden shiver that runs down his spine, distracting him from his inspection of the brand new lab Hank has just finished constructing beneath the school. It's an impressive space, all smooth surfaces and pristine equipment, empty counters that will eventually be home to whatever ambitious experiments Hank and Charles can dream up.

It's new, and fascinating and very exciting, and Charles should have no trouble focusing as Hank shows him around.

It's almost a relief a heartbeat later, when Azazel appears before them in a red puff of mist. Hank startles back at the intrusion, yellow eyes narrowing and fur bristling. Charles smiles despite himself and marvels at how accustomed he's become to such showy interruptions.

The smile fades from his face when he meets Azazel's eyes and finds a new, sharp edge in the way Azazel is watching him. There's an unaccustomed tension in the line of his shoulders, something almost ferocious in the shimmering echoes of his surface thoughts. 

"Thank you, Hank, you can go," Charles says without taking his eyes off of Azazel.

"Professor?" Hank sounds alarmed, and maybe a little offended, but mostly alarmed, and Charles forces himself to shift his focus and meet Hank's eyes. 

"It's all right. I think there's something Azazel and I need to discuss." The truth is, Charles doesn't know _what_ to think of the way Azazel is staring at him. He knows only, in an obvious and instinctive way, that whatever is about to pass between them is private—and urgent—and he needs Hank to be elsewhere. 

Hank retreats only with reluctance, but he respects the command in Charles' voice enough to go without further question. Charles follows him to the heavy, windowless door and once Hank is through, locks it behind him. When he turns, he finds Azazel still watching him, taut and motionless, and Charles asks the only thing he can think to.

"Is everything all right?"

Another puff of red mist, and suddenly Azazel is right in Charles' space. Charles exhales audibly in surprise when Azazel grabs him hard and slams him back against the door. Strong fingers grasp at his bicep hard enough to bruise, and Azazel's tail twines around Charles' other wrist and pins it to the doorframe. Azazel's free hand brushes the base of his skull, then fists almost cruelly in Charles' hair as Azazel drags him into a vicious kiss.

Charles is too stunned to even think of resisting as Azazel's tongue delves into his mouth. He grasps at Azazel with one hand—the hand not currently pinned to the door—fingers clenching in the fine fabric of Azazel's black suit. Charles' chest heats dangerously at the unyielding press of Azazel's body; Azazel runs several degrees too warm, an inferno against Charles' front, and his mouth and tongue are sharply possessive. 

At last want of air ends the kiss, and Azazel retreats with a pointed nip at Charles' lower lip. Charles belatedly recovers himself enough to react. It takes conscious effort to uncurl his fingers from the dark coat and press his palm to Azazel's chest, and then he pushes. Hard. It doesn't earn him much space, but Azazel backs off a couple of inches and arches an unamused eyebrow at his pinioned prey.

"What are you doing?" Charles demands, though the question comes out breathless. 

After all the things Azazel has shown him in the privacy of their minds, Charles should have seen this coming. Instead, he finds himself floored by the revelation that Azazel hasn't just been amusing himself at Charles' expense; he _wants_ Charles. More than that, he clearly intends to take what he wants. There's no mistaking the greedy glint in those ice-blue eyes.

"No more stupid questions," Azazel growls, and kisses him again.

The next several minutes are a blur of rough hands and greedy touches, of Azazel's mouth on him, sucking deliberate bruises into Charles' throat. Charles is overwhelmed by sensation. He can't think, can't speak; he can barely react except to cling for balance as Azazel drags his clothes off him with impatient hands. 

Charles' head spins when Azazel drops him onto the nearest empty counter. The smooth metal is ice-cold along Charles' back, counterpoint to Azazel's intense body heat as he parts Charles' thighs and slips between them like entitlement personified. 

Heat floods Charles' face at the way Azazel's eyes devour him. He is suddenly, painfully aware of his own nakedness. He feels vulnerable and exposed, the more so because Azazel is still fully clothed. Azazel stands motionless at the edge of the table with one hand on Charles' hip, the other a proprietary weight on Charles' thigh. Azazel's tail winds idly around Charles' ankle like an afterthought. 

There's too much weight in Azazel's stare, and Charles can't breath, can barely think. The fading voice of reason in his head tells him he needs to put a stop to this. He needs to tell Azazel to let him go, maybe add a mental nudge to the command because he's not sure Azazel will listen if it's only words. And shouldn't _that_ shut his libido right down—but somehow it doesn't. It only sets Charles' blood boiling higher, fucked up as all this is. He can feel himself bruising beneath Azazel's forceful hands, and instead of chilling his arousal it only makes Charles' face flush hotter.

He's never let a man touch him like this before. He's never _wanted_ to. But now he's here, and he doesn't want Azazel to stop.

Making no move to retreat, Azazel abruptly releases him. An instant later that strong, sleek tail coils around Charles' neck—threat or promise, or maybe both—not choking him, but squeezing tightly enough to make his pulse throb in his throat. His hands fly up instinctively, fingers grasping at the muscular coils closing in on him. But they tighten no further, and he doesn't try to pull the tail loose; he doesn't try to escape. He just holds on, staring up with wide eyes as Azazel tugs his hips to the edge of the table and forces his thighs wider.

"You could stop me with a thought," Azazel murmurs, a taunting quirk twisting up at one corner of his mouth.

Charles doesn't deny it. He doesn't protest. And his stillness only succeeds in turning Azazel's smirk sharper.

Azazel's fingers are as hot as the rest of him when they slip between Charles' thighs and press inside him—too warm and also slick with something, though Charles doesn't know what. He hasn't been watching Azazel's hands. Too distracted by other things, like the coil of Azazel's tail still a shade too tight around his throat, or the alarming blue of Azazel's eyes, the almost feral shadow twisting his expression into something dark and predatory.

Charles can't fathom _wanting_ to be looked at this way. He can't believe how fiercely it's turning him on now. Or maybe it's not the look turning him on. Maybe it's the unrelenting touch somewhere deeper, the rough twist of Azazel's fingers inside him, loosening him for what comes next.

Charles moans, low and helpless, when Azazel's touch brushes a spot that sets off sparks behind his eyes.

Azazel isn't gentle when he draws his fingers too quickly out of Charles, and Charles can't quite swallow the pained gasp that escapes him. He can't help noticing the glint of fire that lights in Azazel's eyes at the sound.

He's not surprised at the revelation that Azazel enjoys his discomfort. If he had stopped to imagine what it might be like to take this man to bed, he would certainly not have imagined gentleness and romance. But he's shocked just the same at the way his own traitorous body reacts, pulse picking up and chest winding tight with unexpected need. He's aware of Azazel's mind within easy reach, but the thoughts filling his head now are his own—all rough touches and violence—and Charles' cock, already hard, gives an interested twitch where it's curved against his stomach. It seems he doesn't know himself as well as he thought.

There's the sound of a zipper in the breathless quiet of the lab. There's a taut, taunting moment of stillness, and then Azazel's cock nudges at Charles' entrance, blunt and slick. Azazel's thoughts are suddenly overwhelming, a noisy rush crowding into Charles' awareness just as Azazel is crowding into his space, and Charles can't breathe for all the irresistible sensation coursing through him.

The strong tail uncoils from his neck, and in the same instant Azazel grasps him by the thighs and drags Charles down hard onto his cock. The hot, hard length slots deep without heed for Charles' comfort, and Charles gives a stifled cry as Azazel fills him in a single thrust. Charles' head spins, adrenaline pulsing wildly through him, and he doesn't understand how something so painful can feel so good.

Azazel gives him no time to adjust. Charles hasn't even time to draw a breath before Azazel pulls almost entirely out of him, then fucks roughly back in. The movement is jarring and draws a sharp gasp from Charles. He reaches for Azazel instinctively, desperate for something, _anything_ to hold onto.

But Azazel's lithe, strong tail intervenes, twining around Charles' wrists and dragging them above his head, pinning them to the table with unfathomable strength. Charles arches, biting back a cry as a third thrust jostles him on the table. Azazel shifts his grip restlessly, fingers bruising Charles' thighs and his hips, as he sets an unrelenting rhythm of harsh thrusts, taking Charles with possessive force.

They move together for long, wordless minutes—minutes in which Charles can't think beyond the pounding, aching pleasure (pain) of Azazel's cock inside him—filling and claiming him, making him desperate for the taunting orgasm just out of reach. His body is a live wire of raw sensation, overwhelmed, unresisting of Azazel's rough treatment.

Azazel shifts his grip then, bends forward, curls above Charles as he changes the angle of his thrusts just so. The shift in position sets off sparks along Charles' nerves, and he moans a shocky gasp. Azazel murmurs words into Charles' ear, syllables Charles doesn't recognize and can't decipher without slipping into Azazel's mind in search of meaning—and he doesn't dare do that. Azazel's mind is an inferno of vicious desire surging at the edges Charles' awareness—a wall of heat and hunger—and when Azazel draws back, Charles sees all those things reflected in his eyes.

" _Azazel_." Charles' voice is wrecked on the name he doesn't mean to speak, and Azazel's rhythm falters at the sound.

The look in those pale eyes shifts with startlement. The furnace of impenetrable heat in his thoughts twists and shimmers and then, impossibly, softens. The next thrust is as deep as the rest, but compared to the raw rutting of before it's almost gentle. Azazel braces one hand on the table beside Charles' head as he falls still, the entire length of his cock sheathed in Charles' body. Charles twists his wrists futilely within the tight coils of tail still restraining him, and his skin flushes at the new look in Azazel's eyes.

"Say it again," Azazel hisses.

"What?" Charles blinks in confusion. He can't clear his head, though he has a sense that he should be able to understand.

"My name." Azazel emphasizes the growling command with a deliberate, brutal thrust that crushes Charles hard against the table. "Say it again."

" _Azazel_ ," Charles gasps as Azazel's cock ruts deep and unrelenting—then moans when Azazel stills once more inside him.

Something is happening here—something sharp and unexpected. Something that is somehow, impossibly, softening the heated violence in Azazel's eyes, gentling his touch on Charles' skin. Something that feels, when Charles dares to reach out with his mind, alarmingly like affection.

"What are you doing?" Charles whispers. It's the second time he's spoken these words tonight, though they carry an entirely different meaning now.

Azazel only growls again. Disorientation sings through Charles as Azazel teleports them both. He doesn't take them far, apparently too impatient to pull out but desperate to have Charles on his back on the floor, where Azazel can blanket him with the impossible furnace of his body and crush him against the cool tile.

For long, confusing moments, Azazel is gentle. His rhythm smooths but he does not stop, and his mouth presses amazed kisses along Charles' throat. Charles shies from Azazel's thoughts, but he can't entirely ignore the swell of different instincts, no less possessive for all that they are undeniably gentler. Azazel's hand slips smoothly between their stomachs and curls around Charles' cock, stroking him in time with Azazel's own faltering rhythm. His tail unwinds from Charles' wrists, and Charles arches beneath his weight, wraps his arms around Azazel's shoulders and clings desperately.

He comes muffling his own cry in the front of Azazel's suit; he knows Azazel is nowhere near following him.

After Charles' orgasm, the gentleness melts from Azazel's touch. The fondness, contradictory as it is, holds front and center in the noisy broadcast of Azazel's thoughts. Azazel is a pillar of heat between Charles' legs, a force of nature thrusting deep with a different ferocity now, relentless in search of release. 

Charles spreads his legs wider, accommodating the onslaught as well as he can, welcoming the slick ache deep inside his own exhausted body. He's painfully aware that he'll be feeling the aftereffects of Azazel's rough use for days to come, but he doesn't resist as Azazel's takes him with mounting desperation.

Azazel's pace quickens at the end, his deep, forceful thrusts growing erratic. He pounds thoughtlessly now into Charles' body, jostling him against the floor, burying his face in Charles' shoulder as at last he comes.

Charles clings to him. He hears the fractured echo of his own name in Azazel's thoughts, as Azazel's orgasm rushes through them both.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

In the moments after Azazel climbs off of him, Charles feels awkward as he gathers his scattered clothing. Satisfaction pulses in Azazel's mind, bright and smug along the surface of his thoughts. Charles ignores the slick soreness of his body as he dresses, all too aware of Azazel's sated attention following his every move. Azazel, after all, only needs to tuck himself away and do up his fly, and then he's free to watch Charles through heavily lidded eyes.

"Something is troubling you," Azazel murmurs, once Charles is dressed. There's a teasing lilt to his voice. Something about that tone makes anger snap in Charles' chest, despite the fucked-out lethargy pervading his limbs.

"Of course something is troubling me." Charles whirls on him and glares. "I don't even _like_ you. You don't like _me_. How could we have just—"

"Fucked like animals?" Azazel supplies with a smirk. 

Charles' mouth snaps shut. He doesn't have a response to that. He's too busy blushing and dropping his eyes, looking anywhere at all besides Azazel. He feels filthy and a little bit used.

"This can't happen again," Charles says finally, turning his back on Azazel and bracing both hands on the edge of the countertop where Azazel just—

Where Charles just let him—

His hands tighten so hard his knuckles turn white, as fresh sense memories suffuse him.

"And why not?" Azazel asks, sounding genuinely curious. "Are you worried Magneto will be jealous? Were you waiting for him?"

" _What_?" Charles whirls and stares at Azazel in startled disbelief. "No, that's not— Of course I wasn't. Erik and I aren't— We don't—"

"Ah," Azazel interrupts smoothly, faint hint of a smile on his lips. "My mistake."

Charles scowls and turns away again, managing to feel even more lost than before. He doesn't know how to make Azazel understand. How is he supposed to explain something as obvious as the reality that getting mixed up with Azazel this way is a terrible idea? He doesn't know how to make Azazel see reason in this, any more than he knows how to convince the man that Charles' ideals are anything other than foolish naiveté. 

It would be a fruitless discussion.

Or perhaps Charles is a coward and simply does not _want_ to explain.

He inhales sharply the next instant, at the unexpected sensation of Azazel invading his personal space. Azazel crowds him against the counter, a line of heat along Charles' back. He presses his palms flat to the countertop on either side of Charles, bracketing him inescapably in.

His lips brush Charles' ear when he murmurs, " _You_ say this cannot happen again. I say you are mistaken."

Charles shivers and, for fear of what his voice will sound like, doesn't respond.

"It is too late to feign disinterest," Azazel purrs. "You cannot deny wanting this. You cannot pretend you did not enjoy being... _taken_." 

"We are not animals to give in to every base want," Charles protests weakly.

"No indeed," Azazel agrees. "Not _every_ want. This particular want, however." He nuzzles at Charles' throat. 

Charles inhales sharply. His voice fails him, his throat working in a helpless swallow, and he can feel the smirk in the kiss Azazel presses beneath his jaw.

"I will have you again, Charles Xavier. I will overpower you, and I will fuck you, and perhaps I will even make you beg. You will not dare look at another for fear of what my jealousy will unleash." 

Charles shivers, and still he cannot speak.

"Now I know that I need only reach out and take what I want," Azazel breathes against Charles' throat. "And so what is to stop me?"

Charles understands the answer with a jolt of heat: _nothing_. There is nothing to stop Azazel from taking what he has already claimed as his own. 

And Charles knows he's been claimed. He can feel it not only in the warm press of Azazel's body curled behind him—not only in the distracted twining of Azazel's tail around his wrist—but also in the deep-seated ache in his own body, the lingering physical sensations. There is no preventing Azazel from sating his every hungry, territorial desire; not unless Charles intends to put up a fight.

And that, Charles realizes with a flush of shame, he will never do.


End file.
